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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333653">long wait for something real.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths'>vipertooths</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>1917 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Afterlife, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, POV William Schofield, Post-Canon, Soulmates, a touch of bittersweetness -- yknow cause theyre dead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23333653</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipertooths/pseuds/vipertooths</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only two thoughts that penetrate the haze of Will's mind: he is dead… and Thomas Blake is waiting for him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Blake/William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>1917 [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678021</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>
  
  <br/>
  
</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will stands in front of an unfamiliar home on the outskirts of an unfamiliar rural town. It is picturesque—green grass interspersed with wildflowers, cherry blossoms lifted through the air on a warm breeze, a cobblestone chimney reaching into the bright, blue sky—but it is little more than background noise to him.</p><p>There are only two thoughts that penetrate the haze of his mind: he is dead… and Thomas Blake is waiting for him.</p><p>He walks the beaten dirt path to the porch, feeling a swoop in his stomach as he steps up to the door that takes him off guard; he hadn't expected to feel things like nerves in the afterlife, not that he'd thought often about the afterlife at all. He grabs the handle, half expecting his hand to pass through it, but it's solid and cool beneath his fingers, opening with ease. The warm, muted colors of the house greet him.</p><p>There is a kitchen to his right, light shining in over the sink, and to his left is the sitting room, where an orange cat peers at him from its spot by the fireplace. His eyes are drawn to the back door though, which has been left wide open. He walks quietly through the open space of the first floor, the smell of coffee and wood surrounding him.</p><p>It takes him a moment, once he steps into the back yard, to find Thomas. He's sitting beneath a tree, head down, an arm over one of his knees. Will briefly thinks he's sleeping, but then he lifts his face. The sun glints off the tear tracks on his cheeks, but he doesn't bother to wipe them away.</p><p>Standing in front of him again, Will feels a swell of emotions, unnameable, unknowable in their multitude. He reaches out a hand and Tom takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up.</p><p>They idle there for awhile, holding onto each other, taking in each other's presence. There is the barest smile on Tom's face, but it's sad. It seems so at odds with this place they're in where contentment seems suffused in the very fabric of its creation.</p><p>"You're still so young," Tom says eventually.</p><p>"So are you," Will returns.</p><p>A beat, a breath, a moment to grieve that their lives were cut so short, and then the feelings drift away, as if pulled out of them.</p><p>Their hands are still clasped and Will looks at them, squeezes lightly. Whole, soft, untarnished by blood. He tries to recall how either of them died, but the memory is out of reach. Now that he is thinking of it, there is much he can't seem to remember.</p><p>The look of confusion on his face must be clear, because Tom says, "It's for our own peace of mind, the not remembering."</p><p>"I remember you."</p><p>Tom smiles, but it's not quite right. It's still tinged by sadness. "Who else do you remember?"</p><p>He digs through his memories. His mother. A few fellow comrades he had befriended. His childhood dog. "Dead," he says quietly, quickly finding the pattern. He can only recall those already dead.</p><p>"Yeah. They aren't gone exactly, just…stored, I guess."</p><p>Will nods, processing the information, and finally lets go of Tom's hand to pull him into a hug. He goes readily, sinks into it like it's the greatest relief to rest his forehead on Will's shoulder, and Will thinks he understands the feeling.</p><p>It's impossible to tell how long they stay like that; he's instinctively aware that time passes differently here. Maybe it's a ridiculous notion, considering how shortly they were parted, but it feels like they're making up for a lifetime of separation. Maybe death just does that to you, changes your perspective. Or maybe the separation goes deeper than death and they're making up for all the living years they never knew each other too.</p><p>Tom pulls back first, looks up at him with considerably dryer eyes. "Fancy a tour?"</p><p>"I'm meant to stay here, then?"</p><p>"Oh– If there's some other place you'd rather be– I thought– I didn't mean to <em> assume</em>."</p><p>He puts a hand on Tom's shoulder, effectively stopping the sputtering, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Don't hurt yourself. Of course I'll stay here, if you want me to."</p><p>Tom huffs and turns for the house, clearly expecting Will to follow. "'Course I want you to," he mutters, low enough that he probably didn't mean for Will to hear him.</p><p>He shows Will to the lavatory first, where he gives a cursory and rather inadequate explanation of the 'shower' before sweeping off into the kitchen. The equipment there seems to be top of the line as well, but all things Will is familiar with at the least.</p><p>"Do you still eat?" he asks curiously as he peers into a cupboard. He thought hunger would be something you'd leave behind.</p><p>"Yes, although I hear you don't <em> have </em> to. It won't kill you not to. But who doesn't like to eat?"</p><p>He shuts the cupboard and follows Tom into the sitting room, where he's introduced to the cat he'd seen before. She is appropriately named Mittens, or Mitts for short, due to her white paws, and she purrs affectionately when he rubs her head.</p><p>"I didn't think you were the kind of person to have a cat."</p><p>"She wasn't mine, exactly. More like...a family cat."</p><p>"Do you have any family here? And what is 'here' called anyway?"</p><p>"My grandparents, but they're a few days travel from here. The town is Twining, but I assume you mean..." Tom gestures around vaguely. "Heaven? Purgatoire? Jenseits? Depends who you ask. Afterlife seems to be the most agreed upon term."</p><p>They head upstairs next, which is only half a floor, a small section of railing allowing you to look down into the room below. Straight ahead of the stairs is a reading alcove where he can immediately tell he'll be spending a good chunk of his time, but he passes up browsing the shelf or exploring the single bedroom to open the double doors to the balcony. </p><p>Tom follows close behind, pointing out the chicken coop, cow stall, well, and their nearest neighbors–two women named Georgia and Odette.</p><p>Will leans against the balustrade and closes his eyes, taking in the sounds and scents around him. When Tom joins him, they're close enough that their arms brush, but he doesn't mind it. It's nice to be close to someone. It's nice to be able to enjoy the peace, the real kind, not the fleeting moments between war and pain and sickness and every other awful thing on Earth.</p><p>"I made it to the Devons," he says, and he can feel Tom shift to look at him. He doesn't know now why it had been so personally, deeply important that he did so, but it feels like something he should share.</p><p>"Good." </p><p>He doesnt think Tom knows either. </p><p>That lack of knowledge might have frustrated him on Earth, but he can't conjure up the same feeling in this place. Nothing seems quite so much in a hurry now; even the act of remembering demands to take its own grand time.</p><p>He breathes deep and lets the sunlight warm his face. Briefly, he wonders if it's real, but it's all subjective in the end. It's real to him, which he thinks is all that really matters, so he lets himself enjoy it. </p><p>In the silence, he shuffles through his mind, trying to gauge how much he remembers from his life. He can recall his childhood home, his school, the feeling of his first kiss. He remembers enlisting in the war and the tear soaked patch on his shoulder when he left. It's the people that should be attached to these memories that are missing, as if lost to a fog. When he focuses, he can glean small bits of information, like the color of their eyes or how quick they were to smile or the raspiness of their voice, but nothing whole and concrete.</p><p>There's bad memories too, but they're more distant than the good ones, just ghosts of pain and sorrow and rage, like they were laid to rest with his body.</p><p>Mostly, he remembers the man beside him, and he's not sure if that's because Tom is clearest in his mind or if it's just because he wants to. Maybe that's what it all comes down to in this place: the wanting. And he thinks that it's got it right, because there's little more he's wanted for the past year than warm light and Thomas Blake.</p><p>"Penny for your thoughts?"</p><p>Will opens his eyes, notes the new position of the sun as it inches closer to the horizon. "Never could stay quiet for long, could you?"</p><p>"Shove off."</p><p>"Eternal paradise is just going to be eternally listening to you yap my ear off."</p><p>"Yeah, well, if you dislike it so much, you can leave."</p><p>Will smiles at the quip and at last decides to answer the question. "I was thinking about the sun." <em> I was thinking about you,</em> he doesn't say, but it's a near thing.</p><p>Tom stares at him for a moment. "What? For that long?"</p><p>"Not all of our heads are empty."</p><p>"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead."</p><p>He snorts softly at the joke, earning a wide smile in return.</p><p>"It's nice to have you here. Not that… it's nice that you died, but, y'know."</p><p>"Was it lonely before?"</p><p>Tom shakes his head. "I wouldn't say that. But it's still nice that you're here."</p><p>Despite the confirmation that people still eat in the afterlife, it takes Will by surprise when he feels a familiar pang in his stomach. "I'm hungry?" It comes out half statement, half question. "I thought you said we didn't have to eat."</p><p>Tom laughs quietly and it reverberates up his arm. "It'll go away if you ignore it. But there's plenty to eat here. <em> Good </em> food too, no dog meat and stale bread ends—unless you ask, I suppose."</p><p>"Who would I ask?"</p><p>"God?" Tom waves a hand toward the sky nebulously. "Whoever runs this. You wish for things and they show up. They have to already exist though. Can’t ask for a flying shoe."</p><p>Will hums and pushes away from the balcony, waiting for Tom to take the lead again. He steers them back down the stairs, which creak beneath their feet, an oddly comforting sound.</p><p>"What do you do all day?"</p><p>"Anything I'd like," Tom says easily, then to himself, "Wonder if there's anything new in town."</p><p>"New?" </p><p>He directs Will into a chair and begins shuffling through the kitchen. "It happens sometimes, I'm told, when someone joins a community. There were no cherry trees around until I came. There used to be no lake, either."</p><p>"Could you wish for something like that?"</p><p>He pauses to consider. "I've never thought about it."</p><p>It goes on like that for awhile, Will asking questions and Tom doing his best to answer them. He asks them as the food is prepared, in between bites, after his plate his empty. He learns that Twining is a <em>community</em> and that communities are curated based on their residences, that there is no form of currency—only bartering, that animals are unkillable and meat simply appears in the refrigerator (which he is informed is like an icebox with no ice).</p><p>When he finally takes a break to think, Tom whistles low and props his elbows on the table. "I think that's the most I've heard you talk at once. Anything else you want to ask?"</p><p>Will remains silent and quirks an eyebrow just slightly.</p><p>"You're a natural born funnyman," Tom says dryly.</p><p>"Actually, I do have one more question. How long have you been here?"</p><p>"A year, about."</p><p>Will's suspicion about time moving differently here grows stronger. He doesn't remember exactly when he died, but he's sure it wasn't so long after Tom. He picks the dishes up from the table and brings them to the sink to wash, just for something to occupy himself with. Everything seems so big here—the emotions that wrap around him threefold, the gaps in his memory, the space between him and Tom. Everything is too large, too overwhelming.</p><p>He collects the pans from the stove and the empty mug on the counter and puts them into the sink as well, taking his time to wash everything thoroughly. The simple, menial task makes him feel a bit better. It's soothing, somehow, to put his hands to work; it keeps him grounded when he gets too caught up in his head.</p><p>Tom joins him with a towel, far closer than he needs to be, and takes the washed dishes one by one from Will's hands.</p><p>"I once got my hand stuck in the sink," he says conversationally, and Will barks a laugh from the surprise of it. "See, I was washin' the mud off my toy soldiers and I dropped one right down the drain. I thought, <em>It can't be too far down, right?</em>, so I grabbed a fork and started fishin' round in there, but my hands were still wet and I dropped that in too. Then I started to panic. <em>Think, Tom, think. What've we got that can get this fork back up?</em>"</p><p>"Oh no."</p><p>"Oh yes. I didn't even care about the soldier anymore. Nobody was going to notice one of my toys missing, but being short a fork?" He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. "So you know what my rubbish six-year-old brain came up with?"</p><p>Will shuts the water off and turns to him. "I'm sure whatever I guess, I'll be wrong."</p><p>"A magnet! A bloody magnet! So now I've got this magnet pinched between my fingers and I'm hopin' I won't have to put it down very far before it snags the fork. I jam my hand in, reposition my grip on it, and then, of course, I can't pull my hand back out. I could've, if I let go of it, but I was determined not to drop anything else down there. And I was still there, a good hour past, arm numb, fingers aching, when someone came in and found me. Had to take the pipes apart and everything."</p><p>Will laughs gently, imagining the scene.</p><p>"Wasn't even punished for it. Must've looked like a kicked puppy to get out of that one so cleanly."</p><p>He stows the dishes in their respective spots and they drift to the living room, sitting side by side on the sofa. It's like some force of gravity, the way Will is pulled to him, the same now as it had been since they first met. He hadn't thought so back then, but it's clear now just how quickly he'd become attached to this wide-eyed, round-cheeked, brazen idiot of a soldier.</p><p>Tom starts talking again, launching into telling him about some of his favorite people in Twining. There's no way Will's going to remember the onslaught of information come morning, but he's content to listen anyway.</p><p>The conversation goes on until the sky darkens outside, and it's only when his eyelids grow heavy that he realizes how masterfully Tom had distracted him from his burgeoning crisis, simply my virtue of being himself.</p><p>He lets his eyes close, limbs heavy and loose, as a comfortable silence falls over them. "Why were you crying? Earlier?" It's work to get the words out, and even more so to keep his mind awake enough to register the answer.</p><p>"I remembered you," Tom says, like it's simple, like that's all the explanation needed.</p><p>As Will slips into sleep, he decides that it is.<br/>
<br/>
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</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>aaaaaaaaa i'm so sorry it took me a whole ass year to finish this. its been rough. i hope you enjoy :')</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Will wakes the next morning, he's slumped over the arm of the sofa, a soft duvet covering him. Despite the position he fell asleep in, he feels more rested than he can remember being in a long time. The house is quiet, the birds chirping outside as the sun peeks through the window. He stands and folds the quilt, tucking it away in the linen closet when he's done, and considers having a wash until he remembers the unfamiliar bathing setup. It'd probably be best to wait for Tom to fully explain how to use everything in the house before touching any of it.</p><p>Instead, he relieves himself, washes his hands and face, grabs an apple from the counter, and opts to look around town while Tom sleeps.</p><p>He considers his clothes as he shuts the door behind him, deciding that his first objective in this new life is to acquire some new ones. Tom had mentioned being able to wish for things, but he hadn't expounded on the process. Will feels a bit silly about doing it, but asks inside his head for more to wear, then quietly aloud, then at a normal talking volume. Nothing happens either time. He sighs.</p><p>It dawns on him, as he walks the dirt road in what he hopes is the right direction, that he has no idea how close or far the town square is from Tom's house. Hills roll out around him, obstructing his view of the horizon, the occasional tree standing tall and proud amid the expanse of land. On a whim, Will heads into the tall grass alongside the road. It sweeps to and fro in the wind, brushing against his calf. He has the urge to lie down in it, to let himself be surrounded by the gentle ebb and flow of the blades, an ocean of green. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> "I think if we stayed quiet, no one would know we were here."  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will can't see Tom from even a few feet away right now, the grass encasing them both as they lie on the ground, the sky darkening above them. "You're missing a very important reason that would never work," he says. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Yeah? What's that?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "You'd have to stay quiet." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Tom snorts. "Excuse me for trying to liven up the place sometimes." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The sky stares down at him through the criss-crossing green, stony and unforgiving. It's going to rain soon. They'll have to leave. He tells Tom so. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Maybe I'll sink into the mud and become my own blade of grass." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "You have a strange way of livening the mood," he says idly, brushing a stray haulm away from where it's sticking to his skin. He's found Tom to be an interesting case, swinging without notice or apparent reason from merriment to melancholy and back again. He doesn't very often in front of the other men though, which Will takes a small bit of pride in. Tom is reasonably well liked, naturally charismatic as he is, but it's Will who gets to see this side of him. It feels like a shared secret. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There's a large rustling and then a smaller rustling, and Will watches the grass to his side part as a hand reaches through it, clapping down on his arm. "Thank you."  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Will hums in response and thinks that maybe it's not such a terrible thought after all. Perhaps it would be nice to stay on the ground and soak in the sun and rain for a week. Tom doesn't move his hand. This feels like a shared secret as well. Will closes his eyes as a raindrop kisses his cheek. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He blinks away the memory, figuring he has all the time in the world to lie in fields once he's acquainted with the area.</p><p>He spots the town when he gets to the top of his first hill, relieved that he'd gone in the right direction. From his vantage point, he can see a few small farmhouses dot the flatter parts of the land, which eventually evens out into something more tame.</p><p>A few people greet him during his exploration, one even having him stand outside her house to make him a gift basket to bring home. The paper attached to the jar of jam is for Tom, a simple note saying she's happy he has someone with him now.</p><p>Will continues to tour the area at a languid pace, taking into stock the various shops and buildings and attempting to memorize street names. When he stumbles upon a large pond, he can't help but take a seat on the bench beneath a copse of trees and watch the geese on the water. The scent of wildflowers filling the air and the distant sound of music lulls him into half awareness and he lets himself get lost in it. He doesn't recognize the song being played, or any after it, but he likes most of them. On the occasion he got leave, one of his favorite pastimes in the cities he visited was listening to live music. Tom liked to sing sometimes as well, when they were far enough away from the other soldiers that they couldn't hear him. </p><p>A warmth sparked in his chest at the thought, all the small ways the two of them made exceptions for each other. They showed it in different ways, but Will never doubted their friendship, even if it seemed a bit odd from an outside perspective. Tom was the one he wanted around even when he preferred to be alone, the one he talked to most even when he preferred silence. They saw and understood each other instinctively, despite their differences.</p><p>He sits on the bench for hours, decompressing, running through the tangle of thoughts he hasn’t touched since he ended up here. It’s a little frustrating sometimes, the feeling of things misplaced in his memories, but he’s mostly okay with it. He knows they’ll come eventually. It’s near noon by the time he gets up, mildly hungry and missing Tom’s presence already. He chalks it up to the time spent without him, the desire to finish catching up.</p><p>There’s a small but persistent smile on his face the entire way home, but it drops when he opens the front door and Tom’s head shoots up from his hands, eyes red and cheeks flushed. Will's first thought is that someone else must have died, but the look of misery shifts to anger before he can ask what happened.</p><p>"You arsehole!"</p><p>Will blinks and casts an automatic glance around. "Me?"</p><p>Tom pushes off the sofa and stromps towards him, stopping just inches away. From this close, Will can see the half-dried tear tracks on his face. "I thought I'd lost it! I thought I'd fuckin-- I don't know," he throws his hands up, "imagined you!"</p><p>He takes a moment to internalize that. He'd left without a trace and Tom had woken alone. He'd left and Tom thought he was never there to begin with. If he were to have woken up this morning without any indication that the previous night was real…the thought twists his stomach unpleasantly. "Oh."</p><p>"You could have woken me. You could have written a note. You could have left the damned blanket out, at the least."</p><p>Will doesn't think he's ever seen Tom worked up like this before, what with how easy going he usually is, not that he could really be blamed. "I hadn't thought of it."</p><p>He stares at will for a few seconds more before he deflates, raising his hands to scrub at his face. His voice sounds impossibly young when he asks, "Why didn't you wake me?"</p><p>"It was early." The words sit between them for an awkward amount of time, and Will's not sure what else to say. "<em>I’m sorry</em>."</p><p>"I know." Tom fiddles with one of the rings on his right hand. "Me too. For calling you an arse."</p><p>“There are worse things to be called.”</p><p>Tom smiles, but it seems a bit strained. When he looks up, they both seem to realize how close they are and he takes a few halting steps back. Will feels curiously as though an opportunity was missed. </p><p>“Have you eaten yet?”</p><p>Tom shakes his head. “Didn’t really have an appetite,” he says, and holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize again. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset.”</p><p>“If I can’t apologize anymore, neither can you.” He offered Tom a reassuring smile and felt a little tension leave the air when it was returned gratefully. He raises the basket he’d almost forgotten he was holding. “These are for you.”</p><p>The confrontation is quickly forgotten as Tom takes the basket with a genuine grin and begins to putter around the kitchen, talking about a recipe he’d learned from Anne and how kind she’d been to him since his arrival. He pulls Will into helping him with it and Will slips in the question on how wishing for things works. When he explains his earlier attempts, Tom laughs until he has tears in his eyes, but Will doesn’t mind. He pretends to be put out by it, but all he really registers is how he could listen to Tom laugh forever.</p><p>+</p><p>The after-life passes mostly the same as he can remember regular life, if regular life had been peaceful and relatively worry-free. He befriends the neighbors, and Anne, and Mitts, and the geese at the pond (though Tom would call it bribery). He does work around the house, and cooks meals, and tries to learn what kind of hobbies he’s interested in now that he has so much time on his hands. He finds himself drawn to gardening; every sprout from the soil feels like he’s cultivating a small miracle. </p><p>They put a bed into Tom’s bedroom until they clear out another room for Will, because apparently even Tom doesn’t know the logistics of wishing an extra room into reality. Will slept fine on the sofa, but he likes to think he sleeps a little better when he falls asleep to the sound of Tom talking softly, or just breathing. He spends weeks believing the sense of comfort and safety he feels around Tom is a familiarity thing, some callback from when he was alive, until a realization occurs to him one night while they’re sitting outside and watching the stars. </p><p>They’re only an arm’s length away, and just as he processes the fleeting thought of wanting to be closer, he feels Tom’s fingers barely brush against his. Neither of them say anything about it, because it’s nothing out of the ordinary. It’s their new normal to reach out and touch the other’s arm or shoulder or hand, a sentiment somewhere between making sure they’re still there and just wanting to make contact. What makes Will’s brain stutter is that he almost takes Tom’s hand in his. And isn’t it that simple? He wants to hold Tom’s hand. </p><p>“Why haven’t we moved my bed into another room yet?” he asks, and almost wishes he hadn’t when Tom’s fingers retract.</p><p>“Dunno. We could do that tomorrow?”</p><p>“Do you mind? Me being in your room?”</p><p>Tom scoffs. “Yeah, can’t you tell by the way I’ve been trying to kick you out?”</p><p>Will turns onto his side, prompting Tom to look at him, not that he can see much of his friend’s face. “So I could stay there, if I wanted?”</p><p>A long moment passes and Will can just make out Tom’s furrowed brow. “Yeah. It sounds like there’s more to this.”</p><p>“Maybe we should just get a bigger bed.”</p><p>The pause this time feels filled with static. “I’m confused.”</p><p>Something about this place makes Will feel braver. Or maybe less worried about eternal damnation. “I’ve just come to an understanding with myself that I’d really like to not move out of that room.”</p><p>“Okay…” Tom turns onto his side, his face slipping fully into shadow. “Well, you don’t have to? Do you think there’s not enough room for a bigger bed in there? We could move the side table.”</p><p>“Or we could share.”</p><p>“Oh.” The word comes out in a gust, and Will thinks Tom is finally starting to understand, but it’s hard to tell without being able to see his expression. His voice is small when he speaks again. “I wouldn’t mind that either.”</p><p>They stare at each other in the dark, Will trying to find the words for what he really wants to say.</p><p>“Will?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Is there anything else you want to suggest?”</p><p>Will bites the proverbial bullet and leans closer. “Do you mind?”</p><p>Tom grabs his collar and pulls him the rest of the way, fingers curling into a fist in the fabric. Their noses bump first and he starts to laugh before Tom’s lips find his. It's like the bursting of a dam, every bit of misunderstood longing and unnamed feeling pouring out of him. Tom gives as good as he gets, shifting closer until his arm is trapped between them. It’s like something clicking into place, and he can <em> feel </em> it, warm and buzzing in his chest like something real, something he could hold onto. He puts a hand on Tom's cheek and feels the man's lips curl into a smile against his, until it's impossible to kiss any longer. </p><p>"I don't mind."</p><p>"I'm glad."</p><p>Tom leans back in.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm currently amidst writing chapter two and thinking this will be a two chapter fic. 1917 forcibly dragged me out of my depressive non-writing slump to write this and I'm so grateful for it.<br/>Also big thanks to my cheerleaders in the 2nd Devons server!<br/>Let me know what you think so far! 🥰<br/>You can find me on Tumblr @ vipertooth or lancecorpblake.</p><p>Quotes: <a href="https://www.aseaofquotes.com/post/137009144225/barry-unsworth-morality-play">x</a> <a href="https://www.aseaofquotes.com/post/61688316047/peter-heller-the-dog-stars">x</a><br/>Title: <a href="https://jetlining.tumblr.com/post/611339114441326592/timotaychalamet-the-sacrifice-1986-dir-andrei">x</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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